


Seymour's Your Friend

by deafpool (castielsass)



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Dumbass kids, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, F/M, Fluff, Good Parent Wentworth Tozier, Good Parents Maggie & Wentworth Tozier, Little Shop of Horrors References, M/M, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Slice of Life, Teen Crush, Wentworth Tozier Knows, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:55:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23175793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castielsass/pseuds/deafpool
Summary: Went gripped Richie’s hand a bit tighter for a minute, envisioning his burst of energy dashing over to the other boy, accidentally knocking him over, making his serious little face scrunch up with tears and the inevitable meltdown from Mrs Kaspbrak. Instead, he was surprised when Richie slipped out of his grip, and barrelled over to the boy as he had feared, but instead of colliding with him (he’d just started a growth spurt that left him as ungainly as a toddler) he halted just before him, his mud-splashed blue and orange Keds leaving tiny marks on the carpet.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Richie Tozier & Wentworth Tozier
Comments: 66
Kudos: 393





	Seymour's Your Friend

Dr Tozier was not a man intently prone to self reflection. On occasions where most might be inclined to consider their place in the world, or the internal workings of their souls he was more inclined to consider recent movies he had seen, music he had heard, or his family. He was an expert on his family. Maggie, by sheer dint of having known and loved her so deeply for so long he felt as though he had known her his whole life. Richie, he had raised from a baby with Maggie, though the neighborhood had looked down on that and he’d caught more than one sneer at them both for stepping outside their roles for it. He’d held Richie’s tiny angry fist clenched on one finger, saw the little squint, the shock of surprisingly dark hair and known him in a different way, a longer examination, as though they were both discovering Richie together. Richie was one of his favorite topics. He catalogued his favorite foods (mashed banana as a toddler, crackers with smooth peanut butter as a preteen, Twizzlers as a teenager), his best liked songs (anything loud, rhythmic and fast, he’d take rock and roll over most anything else any day), his preferred way to sleep (on his right side, one hand fisted under his cheek, the other outstretched across the mattress like he was marvelling at how far he could reach) as they changed, each difference defining him more and more as he grew.

He took Richie to the office every now and again, mostly during rainy days when Maggie was close to tearing her hair out from being locked indoors with a tornado of a kid as high energy as Richie. One day in late October when Richie was five, he took him to the office to let him play in the waiting room for a few hours, but he got as far as the entrance, Richie’s small hand hot and dry in his before he remembered Sonia Kaspbrak had an appointment. He instantly cringed when he saw she had brought her little boy, a tiny, dour looking kid, aged maybe four, who was playing with Richie’s favorite toy of the moment, a track with race cars attached that he liked to slam together as loudly as possible. 

Richie wasn't the best at making friends yet, a little too loud and passionate about everything and that tended to scare most kids away, except so far, the Denbrough’s oldest boy, thankfully. He gripped Richie’s hand a bit tighter for a minute, envisioning his burst of energy dashing over to the other boy, accidentally knocking him over, making his serious little face scrunch up with tears and the inevitable meltdown from Mrs Kaspbrak. Instead, he was surprised when Richie slipped out of his grip, and barrelled over to the boy as he had feared, but instead of colliding with him (he’d just started a growth spurt that left him as ungainly as a toddler) he halted just before him, his mud-splashed blue and orange Keds leaving tiny marks on the carpet. 

“Hi I’m Richie my dad is the dentist,” he said so quickly that even Went struggled for a second. 

“I’m Eddie, my dad is dead,” the little Kaspbrak boy said and Went glanced at Sonia with relief when it appeared she hadn’t heard them, too busy talking to the receptionist Ellen. 

“Oh,” Richie said. Wentworth winced, waiting for Richie to stick his foot in his mouth, as he took his charts from Ellen. 

“You can borrow my dad,” Richie said after a moment and Wentworth pressed his hand to his forehead to stave off the building headache.  
But instead of bursting into tears, or yelling, the little Kaspbrak boy just looked at Richie for a second, regarding him with big dark eyes. 

“Thanks,” he said, finally, and Went exhaled deeply. “Do you wanna play cars?”

“Yes,” Richie said passionately and sat down on the little colored metal chair with a loud thump. “I’ll show you my game.”

Went hustled into his office swiftly, before Richie could indeed teach Eddie the wonder of smashing toys into each other while making vrooming noises and he had to shush them. 

They were fast friends after that, and Went couldn’t pretend he didn’t feel a wash of relief every time the phone rang, or there was a knock at the door and young Bill Denbrough, or Stanley Uris, or little Eddie Kaspbrak waited there for Richie. He’d been a lonely kid when he was young, too loud and boisterous and passionate just like Richie, but he hadn’t found good friends until his later teens. He was relieved in an understanding, relaxed sort of way that Richie was making friends with so much ease. 

Maggie clearly felt the same, and wanted to encourage their little friendships since she was the one who instituted a monthly movie night. Maggie and Went would put the boys in the living room, sleeping bags and bowls of popcorn strewn about, and let them have free reign of the living room for the evening, watching tapes on the tv while he and Maggie would have a couple drinks - a beer for him, one or two glasses of wine for her - in the kitchen, listen to records, and chat. 

It became routine, Went would pick up some snacks on the way back from work, the boys would bring tapes from home, or if one of them was particularly flush, they might pool their cash and rent one, and they’d wriggle into their sleeping bags and watch tv until lights out. It stayed routine as their little friend group grew, first the new Hanscom boy, then little Mike Hanlon, and Beverly Marsh, who was only allowed for the first half of the movie night before Wentworth would drive her home, fluffy haired from wrestling with the boys, her little hands sticky with popcorn butter and salt. 

Somehow it had swelled just like that, until it was normal for Richie to have all six of his little pals over; all thirteen or fourteen, knock kneed, bright and energetic, and eating everything they could get their hands on. It was on one of these nights, when Maggie had gone to her sisters to visit, and Went was watching them all, when he overheard a fight in the living room. He paused out in the hallway, and heard Stan’s cracking voice, dry and sarcastic:

“-else wants to watch Little Shop of Horrors for the hundredth time just ‘cause you have a crush on Seymour!”

There was a little pause of silence for a minute, like everyone had inhaled at the same time, leaving a vacuum behind. Went wondered for a minute if he should intervene, but he thought better of it, probably best to leave them to sort things out if there was a problem.

“Stan,” Bill Denbrough’s decisive little voice floated out into the hall. “That’s mean.”

“I’m not being mean,” Stan said, sounding sulky and a bit hurt that nobody was siding with him. “I’m just saying nobody wants to watch Little Shop of Horrors again.”

“You shouldn’t say stuff like that,” Mike said, quieter then the rest, and Went felt, not for the first time, a rush of almost paternal affection. Such a sweet, serious little guy, always calm and grounding. So unlike Richie at first, his whirlwind of a kid, but the same deep down, both music fans, both smart as hell, both with that same unending loyal streak that made them damn good friends. 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Stan said, his discomfort obvious. 

Bill Denbrough started to say something, but he was overwhelmed by the swell of Eddie’s voice, high and quick. 

“You’re supposed to be my friend!” Eddie said, loud and betrayed. 

“I wasn’t insulting you!” Stan insisted, his voice cracking in the middle. “It was just a joke!”

“Yeah,” Eddie said hotly, and suddenly he sounded astonishingly close to tears. “Bowers says those kinda jokes too.”

Suddenly there was a noise like rushing footsteps and Went ducked back, barely being missed by the door as Eddie flung it open and rushed past him. He opened the back door, and let himself out quickly, his penny loafers - Jesus, Sonia was clearly grooming the boy to be a primo yuppie - stomping on the tile. It was getting dark outside and Went worried for a moment that he was going to keep going, maybe even jump the short fence, but he stopped outside, and sat on the bench Went’s mother had made for their wedding anniversary. He curled up into it, his arms crossed angrily, tucked into himself in a tight ball, looking heartbreakingly upset and more worryingly, ashamed. 

He gave a little tremble, and Went took up one of Richie’s sweatshirts, that had been abandoned on the back of a kitchen chair before he followed him. The door made a clicking noise as he shut it behind him and Eddie blinked up at him, big dark eyes wet and shiny, and he remembered for a moment how he’d looked when he was five years old, making room for Richie to sit and play. So small, and fierce, all sharp hands and pursed lips, and huge dark eyes, such a ferocious but sweet kid, like a pitbull puppy. He tucked Richie’s sweatshirt around Eddie’s shoulders quickly, firmly, not leaving room for an argument. It was chilly out, and he was only wearing a thin Thundercats shirt, having stripped off his sweater indoors.

“Hey there, Eddie Money,” he said and sat down heavily next to him. His knees gave an almighty creak, and he grimaced automatically. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” he said shortly, but his voice was watery and young. Through the kitchen window, he could see a familiar silhouette peering out with no subtlety. Richie wavered back and forth, like he was trying to get a better angle, his fingernail tucked between his teeth as he gnawed at it. Went sighed. 

“I heard you and Stan have a fight,” he said gently. 

“Sorry,” Eddie muttered, like Went was about to scold him for being loud. 

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Went said. “What he said wasn’t very nice, but he didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I think he just said a silly thing, and he didn’t realize it would make you feel bad.”

“Probably,” Eddie said. “But it still sucked.”

“It did,” Went acknowledged. What a world, he marvelled, where a friend doing a shitty thing could be summed up so succinctly, soon to be forgiven and forgotten. “You know… I love Little Shop of Horrors.“

Eddie snickered softly, and fisted his hands, bringing one up to scrub at his eyes. 

“Me too,” he said. “I like the songs, best.”

“What’s your favorite?” Went asked, though he was scrubbing his memory for the name of a single one.

“Suddenly Seymour,” Eddie mumbled. “And then Mean Green Mother from Outer Space, then Skid Row, and then Somewhere That’s Green.”

“Ah,” said Went, a little startled at the ranking. Eddie caught his look and shrugged. 

“Richie bought me the soundtrack for my birthday,” Eddie said. 

Went thought back a moment. Yeah, Richie had begged for spare change pretty often back in March, had mowed the lawns, had pulled weeds, had accompanied Maggie to and from the store, carrying grocery bags like a good little gentleman.Went had just assumed he’d wanted arcade money as usual, he hadn’t realized Richie was saving up for a present. Clearly, a beloved present. 

“It was my best gift,” Eddie assured him and Went smiled. 

“Seymour is nice,” he said, clearly. 

“I don’t have a crush on him,” Eddie said hotly, sitting up like he was angry again. “Stan was just saying that.”

“I’m just saying,” Went said neutrally. “That even if you did, it wouldn’t be anything bad.”

The window in the kitchen was open just a crack, enough for a voice to float through. Richie was pressed up against it, his breath fogging up the glass in front of his open mouth.  
Every few minutes he lifted a hand and scrubbed away the condensation. Went looked at him with open affection entwined with blatant exasperation, a Tozier special. 

“I don’t,” Eddie said quickly. “I just like him- I just like the movie, I’m not g-“

“It’s a really big world,” Went said. “That’s all I’m saying. It’s a very big world, a hell of a lot bigger than school, or Derry, or Maine, and there are all kinds of people. All of ‘em matter. You know how many kinds of people there are, Eddie?”

“No,” Eddie said. 

“There are as many kinds of people as there are people,” Went said. “All different. All important. Right-o?”

“I guess,” Eddie said dully. 

“What do you think?” He asked and Eddie picked at a seam on Richie’s sweatshirt, drawing the loose thread up into a ball. 

“It’s dirty, though,” Eddie said and Went’s heart broke clean in half. 

“Says who?”

“My mom,” Eddie mumbled. 

“Your mom is just one woman,” Went said. “Just one person. She isn’t the whole world, and she can be as wrong as anyone else. What about that?”

“Then why do the kids in school make fun of me for it, but not Bill, or Ben?” he challenged and Went shrugged. Kids were goddamn observant, was the correct answer, but it wasn’t the right one. 

“You know, when I was Richie’s age, I didn’t have any friends,” he said, instead. “I was loud, but I wasn’t as funny. I didn’t find a group of pals until almost college. I got picked on too, a little. Kids used to call me special needs and worse words. You think there’s something wrong with me?” 

“No,” Eddie said quickly, sounding horrified, and strangely surprised, like the idea of an adult having been a kid once was bewildering to him, some new alien concept. 

“There wasn’t anything wrong with me, I was just different,” Went said. “Kids picked up that I was scared about being different and that was as good a reason as any. But there isn’t anything wrong with me, just because I wasn’t like them, and there’s nothing wrong with you either. Now, if I don’t let Richie out here to check on you, he’s gonna wear a hole clean through my kitchen floor and Maggie’ll have both our heads.”

“Richie’s there?” Eddie asked, but his eyes weren’t on Went, they were turned to the house, searching for Richie’s outline. He found him after a moment, leaning against the kitchen window, gawking out at them with a worried expression. Went sighed, but Eddie looked long enough to turn it into a stare, and then he smiled and Richie gave a fast wave, his hand waxing on and off over the window with enthusiasm and Went thought _oh, I see,_ unbidden, an understanding so clear, whole and open that it was as though it had slipped into his head fully formed. Went waved him through, curling his hand forward enough that Richie gathered it as invitation and he slipped out the back quickly. 

“Hey, Eds,” Richie said quickly as soon as he was close enough, talking fast to Eddie like he always had, like he was nervous. He shoved his glasses up further on his face, adjusting them with one hand. Went wanted suddenly, rather badly, to be absolutely anywhere else. Maybe Maggie was still awake. He could go into the hall, call her up and tell her he needed reinforcements. She’d laugh herself to sleep, but it’d still make him feel better. 

“Hey, Richie,” Eddie said, curling his hands around the sweatshirt. 

“Are you ok? Stan’s sorry. He didn’t say it but you know how he is. He looked really guilty." 

“I’m fine,” Eddie said quickly. Richie shoved up his glasses up again with the heel of his hand and unbidden, Went suddenly remembered exactly who the hell Seymour was and what he looked like. Oh, Christ. Maggie’d have a field day. He pushed himself to his feet, quicker than he’d sat down and Richie blinked at him, big owlish eyes behind his glasses. A little crush, he marvelled. Jesus, how long had it been since he’d had such a sweet, innocent crush? Had he ever been that young, young enough to stand in front of them with big open eyes and a blush on tanned, freckled cheeks? 

“Jesus, it’s worse than a Norman Rockwell painting,” he said aloud and Eddie blinked at him quizzically, but Richie turned a deep, fire engine red from his throat to to the roots of his hair, deeply amusing and gratifying.  


“I’m going back in,” he said, and then thought for a moment about the sleeping arrangements that had been in place for so long he’d never questioned it before. Little Benny usually slept on the loveseat since he was short, Mike took the couch because he was taller, and Stan and Bill usually bunked in together on the spare mattress from the office that Went and Richie dragged downstairs together. Eddie always shared the bed with Richie because he refused to sleep on the floor. Richie had had a twin, and when they were little they could still both fit in it just fine, but then Richie’d hit his first of many growth spurts, and he’d begged and begged for a double for his tenth birthday. Went thought for a moment. Thirteen didn’t seem quite so young as it always had before. 

“Leave your door open,” Went said, before he went back into the house and poured himself a damn tall beer. 

**Author's Note:**

> listen to me....i live and die for little shop of horrors, and there's no world in which little eddie kaspbrak didn't have the world's biggest crush on seymour krelborn.


End file.
